I am always sleepy...and sometimes nauseous

The stream of consciousness of a sleepy girl

I dreamily stare at the rich brown webbed rim circles inconspicuously decorating the depths of my cold, thick porcelain mug. A silver spoon lies beside it, resting in a sticky marsh of froth.

Various shades of dark tears stream down the smooth, stark white surface, boldly leaving their mark.

My head feels heavy against my palm, almost slipping several times as my eyes close and my breath deepens.

The fingers of my right hand reach for their last hope once more, clutching onto my lifeline… this slightly cooled brown elixir of energy which subtly raises the beat of my heart, pleading with my brain to awaken and create.

The balance is precarious. Too little and I remain in the drudging state of sleepiness, too much and it poisons me, filling me with anxiety rather than energy, and nausea replaces creativity.

I turn my attention to my three quarters consumed croissant, this flaky french dome, my insurance.

Fuck, I left my zofran at home, so this had better work.

I order another coffee, determined that this shall be the one to save me.

As I bring it to my lips, I admire the foam marbling across the surface.

It is a Sunday morning in March. I am tapping my foot rapidly due to the copious amounts of coffee and my stupid refusal to use a public restroom.

I look outside to distract myself. The gray light, harsh on my delicate eyes. The skeletal trees as naked as ever, but across the greenery separating the sidewalks from the street, buttery daffodils are softly coming to life, drawing my eyes to the provocative architecture of my town.

The symmetry is like a funeral cake amongst the death of late winter, representing the soul of the deceased. Smooth pink lutetian limestone, decorated with crimson shutters like cherries evenly spaced apart. Wrought iron balconies completed with a swirling lamppost.

The Haussmann urban design… ornate yet restrained. The perfect juxtaposition I wish I could apply to my work.

But I am not a building. I am sleepy and nauseous, some days too ornate, others forcibly restrained. As a consequence, my work will never be perfect… will never be finished, but at some point I must stop.

Written by: Hadassah Cordoba